The Boy in the Walls
by Satiah
Summary: The walls were blue. Or rather, the wallpaper was beige, but those eyes staring at him were quite blue indeed.


Pandora Hearts © Jun Mochizuki

...

His feet crunched over frozen ground. It was a shortcut - squeeze through this fence, beneath that one - but most of the neighborhood kids avoided crossing this particular lawn, preferring the more roundabout route through Old Bill's yard, tiptoeing past his two fat, lazy bulldogs. To the uninformed passerby the quiet corner lot seemed normal enough: a normal house, a normal shed, a normal snow-covered plot of land. Nothing frightening about that. But sometimes appearances were deceiving, and he _would_ be the first to admit there was something undeniably strange about the house with the blue-white sports car that never moved. But today he was in a hurry and decided to take his chances.

Testing for ice, he gave a shrug and ran through the front yard, wary of disturbing snow-laden branches; he'd had more than one run this afternoon end with snow weaseling down his neck and into his boots.

Successfully avoiding treacherous trees, he angled closer and crouched low beneath curtained windows; the snow was thinner beneath a generous overhang. He absently noted the flick-flick-flicker of a television as he passed, watching the light bounce off the roof above his head. Hoping the homeowners were busy watching their favorite show, he skittered through the back yard, pausing briefly behind the storage shed to catch his breath. He rubbed mittened hands together for warmth, hoping to keep the blood circulating so his fingers could better grasp the last chain-link fence. Just as he hoisted one boot and was in the process of lifting the other, he heard a shout. Sweat beaded beneath his scarf, formed on his forehead. He turned slowly, looking over his shoulder to the home behind. His eyes searched, but as far as he could tell, no one was charging after him. No angry face scowled from the windows. He breathed a relieved sigh: it was only the television.

_Some people turn those things up way too loud,_ he thought, feeling stupidly embarrassed. Then he figured the threat of being seen was indeed a real one, so he finished his climb and dropped over with renewed haste. Before he was completely out of sight, however, he heard a woman's shrill scream, cut off by a muffled _thud-thud-thud_.

_Damn t.v._, he frowned. _Some people turn those things up way too loud._

...

Leo stood with his hands in his pockets, breath puffing crisp autumn air. It had been years since he was that little boy, running through the neighborhood like a scampering mouse, leaving tracks he thought invisible.

He grew up here, in the back parts of town where the houses were old with broken screens and peeling paint. Shells of vehicles rusted in front lawns of thick weeds and clover, the pavement cracked more than it continued, and the smell of sewers reigned on muggy summer days. The orphanage he hailed from was no longer in service, boarded up and locked down, but after a once-around he was able to gain entry. Dilapidated and abandoned, he couldn't help but smile when he thought of his family here, of his ever-rotating bundle of brothers and sisters.

When he turned sixteen, he was transferred with the older boys to a new institution on the other side of town, to a place where bright young minds could more aggressively pursue their education. It proved favorable: most were adopted before graduation, him included.

Wandering and wondering, he found his feet in front of the house with the blue-white sports car (_the one that never moved_, his child-voice whispered in his ear, _the one with the racing stripes that never raced_) parked on an overgrown lawn no one dared to cross, much less mow. It looked perfectly normal to him, just as it always had, but that shiver from the back of his mind reminded him of how _scary_ it was, and how _none of the other kids crossed it unless they had to_. He laughed at the foolishness of it - it was just a _yard_ - and climbed the broken driveway. The car watched him quietly, like a statue which once held life before it was forgotten here.

On a whim, Leo stood at the door and, before he could talk himself out of it, rang the doorbell.

Nothing happened. The chime inside was broken. He shrugged, called it a stupid idea, and turned away. He had reached the end of the driveway and started down the next street when he decided to turn and take one last look behind.

The door was gaping open.

...

He wondered if somehow he had unlatched it, but no. A screen separated him from the inside, and he had pushed nothing but the bell. But there was no one inside looking out, and with a sense of cautious curiosity he returned and peered through squinted eyes, careful to not so much as exhale on the outer screen door.

The house was dim and dank, smelling of as much neglect as the old orphanage. He could see no lights, no flickering television, no people or cats or dogs. Figuring it best to shut the door, just in case he really _had _opened it by accident, he slid past the screen and reached for the heavy door's handle.

A man shouted. He froze.

A woman screamed. He ran inside.

_Thud-thud-thud, _down the stairs. He saw nothing.

Confused, Leo passed through the house, searching for someone in trouble. His cell phone was out and dialing for an emergency, but he was hesitant to press the call button; as far as he could tell, his was the only presence.

He climbed the stairs and saw four rooms, each with cobwebs and dust covering what little furniture remained: a bed and dresser, in most cases, although one room also contained a damaged desk and the remains of what might have been a bookshelf, had it still contained shelves.

Something was seriously not right about this place.

Descending to the lower level, Leo passed into the kitchen. It had been gutted and stripped bare: only a rusted picture frame remained, nailed to the wall. Inside was no picture. A laundry room was likewise empty, as well as a bathroom and what was once a pantry. But the last room, located in the very back of the house, remained furnished: a couch and an armchair; small coffee table, complete with a half-filled mug of coffee, newspaper, and T.V. guide magazine; and a television resting on a stand with rows of hardly organized DVDs in the compartment beneath. The carpet looked clean and significantly more emerald than the rest of the dust-covered place.

Feeling guilty, Leo started to make his way out when the newspaper caught his eye. Opened to the sports section (he couldn't care less about sports), but looking recent and new enough to convince him someone _really did_ live here. Flipping to the front page, Leo furrowed his brow.

It was dated several years ago.

Regardless, it wasn't his place to poke in a house that was inhabited, so Leo placed the newspaper on the coffee table and made his way to the front door. From the corner of his eye he caught a brilliant flash of blue, but, eager to leave, he didn't think much about taking a closer look. He closed both doors behind him, ensured they latched, and jogged out of the yard, away from the house that was undoubtedly still creepy, even after all these years.

...

He found it difficult to sleep. Call it cowardice, call him chicken, but the disconcertion of the morning's exploration hadn't left as the day drew long. By nighttime it was impossible to unwind. He tossed and turned, thinking of the novels he'd read growing up, where specters were real and houses were haunted by monsters, and if a curious idiot wandered aimlessly in and disturbed the resting place of a vengeful corpse, he would soon become one.

But zombies and ghosts didn't exist. They made for fantastic reading, but there was little evidence to establish phantoms as anything more than folklore and hallucinations of the overly imaginative. He tried to settle his thoughts with reason, to think through the situation logically, but it was only riling him more and so he climbed out of bed, put on his shoes, and took a walk in the rain.

After growing tired of the wet, he sought refuge in the orphanage. His old room still hosted a serviceable bunk bed, even if the mattress was gone, but he felt like he could just lie on the remaining planks of the frame and sleep there on his back, staring at the ceiling. It perhaps wasn't his greatest idea, but it _was_ a four o'clock in the morning idea, so he gave it a try and found it a mightily uncomfortable perch. Stubborn, he remained the night, dozing intermittently with strange dreams to keep him company. By dawn he had endured enough, climbed down, and took to the streets.

The strange house had its front door open. The blue-white sports car was gone.

The rain resumed. Leo hid inside.

In his tired, ill-tempered state, he was fairly desensitized to his prior feelings of guilt. No longer thinking of himself as a trespasser, he combed the residence to confirm nothing of note was around before entering the living room with the couch and the television and a half-empty mug with coffee rings tattooed to the table beneath. The television was off, as were the lights, and Leo discovered that the switches didn't carry electricity to the fixtures, anyway.

He thought of the doorbell. He thought of the scream-_thud-thuds_. He reached for the remote and turned on the television.

Nothing happened. Of course it didn't; there was no power.

He sighed and replaced the remote on the table, lowering himself into the armchair. He was lethargic and irritated, and the worry had dulled him into an uncaring mess.

He closed his eyes and slept.

...

He awoke to blue.

"Who are you?" a young man asked, voice distorted in Leo's groggy-awakening ears. The face was difficult to see, but his eyes were bright, bright blue.

Leo stretched. He attempted to focus on the face in front of him, saw nothing but a blur, and concluded his glasses were missing. He found them in his front shirt pocket, where he always put them when he had no other convenient option, and placed them on his nose.

The scowl came into perfect focus. "Lovely," Leo grimaced, sitting back against the chair as far away as possible.

"Lovely?" the boy asked, scowl forgotten, confusion evident.

"Yes. You." Leo replied, looking for a way out of the room that wouldn't involve having to fight - physical prowess was not one of his strong points. "I've never seen a happier face."

The scowl was back. "Who the hell are you?"

"Leo."

"That doesn't tell me anything."

"It answers your question. Who are you?"

"Eliot Nightray."

"That doesn't tell me anything. We're even."

Eliot was at a loss. "The name Nightray doesn't mean anything to you?"

"No." Leo concluded he wasn't nearly as fast or as agile as he would need to be to get around the boy blocking his path to the exit, but by the sake of all things good, he _was_ getting out of here before an angry homeowner showed up with a rifle at his chest and alcohol on his breath.

Eliot stopped him before he got very far in his plan. "That's rather interesting," he mused. Leo had expected the kid to be angry. Instead, he appeared contemplative.

Damn it, Leo was curious. "What?" he asked, unable to stop himself.

Eliot smiled. "Nothing. Here. Let me introduce myself properly." He held out his hand. "I am Eliot Nightray, legitimate son to the Duke and Duchess Nightray. Welcome to my home."

Leo accepted the shake. "It's a dump."

Eliot blinked. "Excuse me?"

"This place," Leo gestured once his hand was free. "It's a wreck. I'd expect better from a noble."

Eliot laughed, a charming sound. He seemed straightforward enough, speaking his mind and speaking to the point. His thoughts appeared on his face like an illustrated story. "I see you speak in jest. _Everything_ is here."

But then again, he was also very strange. Leo frowned. "I don't see this _everything_."

"Then surely you don't see." Eliot's smile was still there, still bright. Leo was starting to think he was deranged. But it was in that moment that the sun rose high enough to shine through the dusty window, and Leo noticed Eliot's skin was the same beige as the wall behind, and that there was nothing about him that _wasn't_, aside from the blue of his eyes. Leo stared.

"I must take my leave," Eliot explained. "Mother's calling."

Leo continued to stare.

With a smile and a departing wave, Eliot turned and disappeared. _Into_ the wall.

...

He couldn't stop thinking about the boy in the wall. Even though the encounter resulted in a panicked flight with sneakers blazing, he couldn't stop his thoughts from retuning to the unexplained, absolutely paranormal event _that _had been.

But ghosts didn't exist. There had to be an explanation; a trick.

So it was against his better judgment that he went back again.

And again.

And again.

...

"How do you live inside these walls?" Leo asked one afternoon when the conversation had taken a lull and the leaves outside rained instead of water.

Eliot smiled. "By entering the _house, _idiot. From the front _door._"

"Hilarious. You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

Leo rolled his eyes. Setting the newspaper aside (crossword puzzles and comics were always a good idea), he meandered upstairs, chose a room, and spoke to the wallpaper. "Yes, you do. Quit playing stupid."

Eliot's face appeared, eggshell with flowering yellow. A question was on his lips, but before he voiced it he shook his head, stepped _through_ the barrier, and immediately appeared on the opposite wall. He couldn't stay solid for long. (He and an open room worked like similarly charged magnets: he would be attracted to this side, to that side, but unable to stay in the middle.) "Can't say I know what you're talking about," Eliot yawned. "You keep running all over this place. It's ticking me off."

"You're glued to it."

"Same as you," Eliot said pointedly. "You don't ever go away."

"I'm intrigued."

"Curiosity killed the cat."

"You don't actually know, do you?"

Eliot shrugged. "Like I said: you're the one who keeps running all over this place. Not me."

Leo left it at that. Sometimes it was easier to discover the answers on his own.

...

"The car is never in the driveway when I visit," Leo observed one drizzly morning.

"The car?" Eliot said, raising an eyebrow.

"The one that doesn't move," Leo replied with a secretive smile. "The white and blue thing that just sits and rusts out front."

Eliot placed his chin in his hand and sat with his legs crossed on the floor. "You ask interesting questions."

"You avoid giving answers."

Eliot smiled.

...

Leo assumed he would figure it out. Logic and reason, a bit of mathematics, quantum physics if need be. So far his theories included wormholes, portals, parallel worlds, alternate dimensions, digital projections, and hallucinations.

Unfortunately, all but the last option seemed unlikely.

...

He was back, the coffee half-filled, TV guide open with crossword puzzles completed.

Eliot appeared later than usual with a haggard look on his face. His hair was mussed; every so often he would sigh and run his fingers through it.

"What is it?" Leo asked, pencil bouncing off the table as he tried to remember the last name of that one actress - he was fairly certain he hadn't spelled it right.

"It's been a long day."

Leo put the pencil down and settled further into the couch cushions. "Tell me about it."

"What? You my therapist?" Eliot laughed when Leo sat straighter and perched his glasses on the end of his nose so he could peer overtop the frame. "Nothing to tell," he chuckled. "You'd charge me."

"You'd sue. I'm not a licensed professional."

"Damn straight," Eliot replied, leaning against the window sill, assuming its colors like a human chameleon. Leo pushed his glasses back to their customary position and waited.

"I found out we're moving."

"When?"

"As soon as there's a replacement."

"A replacement for what?" Leo asked.

"Me, I guess," Eliot shrugged.

Leo sighed. "Does this have to do with you being part of this place?"

"Yeah. It does."

"How do you find a replacement?"

"I don't know."

...

One day, the car was there. Leo was apprehensive in his approach, wary and cautious, but after circling the house and hearing nothing he decided it was safe enough to sneak inside.

Finding the house empty, Leo relaxed. Eliot was waiting for him. The remote was on the table, newspaper and magazine tucked away. Leo looked at it curiously. Eliot scowled with distaste.

"Rather read the book than watch the movie, huh?"

_"Yes,"_ Eliot's reply contained so much loathing Leo had to grin.

"Do you put it here?"

"No. The Grim Reaper." Leo threw a pillow at Eliot's face-in-the-wall. "I mean, the housekeeper," Eliot corrected, shuffling to a space behind Leo where he would be more difficult to hit.

"Who's the housekeeper?"

Eliot sighed. "Don't know."

"That doesn't help."

"Hey! I didn't hire my servants! I don't even know how many there are!"

Leo rolled his eyes and grabbed the remote to a television that wouldn't work.

Eliot's blue, blue eyes went wide. "I wouldn't-" he shouted, but Leo had already pushed the button.

...

The world shifted. The remote fell to the carpet. Leo stared at the screen, watching as stains of red blossomed and dripped and pooled from it, beneath it, out of it. His life flashed on that screen, and he saw himself, young, climbing over the neighbor's fence. Reading to his multicultural siblings. Hiding in the library after closing. Graduating. Walking in the rain. Meeting Eliot.

Except Eliot was no longer the color of the walls. Leo was.

He had found his replacement.

...

Leo claimed for himself a modest apartment, furnished comfortably with books - all designed by his own will, apparently, since it was no palace; that had been Eliot's dream.

But when someone entered the home of his home, that ramshackle, worn-down mess hosting a purple-black car in the driveway (_one that never moved_), he found himself drawn to the boundary between.

He couldn't walk on the material plane anymore. He was always connected to the walls.

Not that anyone had entered his domain in a long, long time.

The local children were afraid of the house, see, and of the aura it exuded. It was a strange place, inconspicuous to the normal passerby, but with the occasional sights and sounds of a television which, over and over, played the noise of a boy hoarsely whispering words of rejection, blood splattering, and a monster which squealed and screamed and writhed. The local little ones would much rather take their chances with the more roundabout route - climbing through Cranky Joel's fence and sneaking past his nasty, blind pit bull - than creep near such a place.

Unless, of course, they were in a hurry.

...


End file.
